


all the ashes in my wake

by extasiswings



Series: all the ashes in my wake [1]
Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: AKA The World's Greatest Garbage Date, Angst, Backstory, Episode Tag, F/M, Garcia Flynn Human Disaster, Grief/Mourning, Introspection, The World's Columbian Exposition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-04 07:46:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10271738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extasiswings/pseuds/extasiswings
Summary: Grief is a funny thing...





	1. Chapter 1

Grief is a funny thing. 

People say it happens in stages—denial, anger, bargaining, etcetera. They don’t mention that it also comes in waves, that you don’t always know when you’ll be swept off your feet again, dragged into the undertow. They don’t mention that sometimes the acceptance, the moving on, can hurt almost as much as the loss itself. 

 

I.

_The World’s Fair, 1893_

Flynn closes the door to the small hotel room and leans back against it, pocketing the key. Lucy stands by the far wall, her back to him, as far away as the space will allow. 

She’s angry with him. That’s fine. He’s not exactly pleased with her either.

_It could have been over. I could have ended this. I could have saved them._

He ignores the voice of reason that echoes Lucy’s words from earlier, whispering that it might not have worked, that he would have damned himself even worse than he already has for nothing.

He also ignores the small flicker of relief that he doesn’t have the weight of a child’s death on his conscience.

“We’re staying here then?” Lucy still won’t look at him, but she may as well be sculpted in marble for all the stiffness in her frame. Her voice is pure ice, no hint of the warmth she’d shown him by their horses in 1780. It stings more than he’d like. 

“Unless you’d rather sleep on the Mothership,” Flynn replies. 

She casts a dubious glance at the single bed and it’s clear that she’s considering whether that might actually be a better option. He rolls his eyes. 

“I’ll take the floor.” If there’s a piece of him that aches at the thought of sharing a bed, of being touched by another person for the first time in an age—because it would be unavoidable on a mattress that small—well, he’s the only one who has to live with that. 

The gulf between them feels wider in the silence that falls, a gaping maw full of bitter words, empty hopes, and broken trust. 

_I really thought we were going to do great things._

_I guess that makes you expendable..._ He shouldn’t have said that. It’s not true. From the moment she appeared in his life and gave him her journal, he knew he could never hurt her. Not really. Not ever. 

_It could have been over..._ Could it? Would he really have been able to pull the trigger if she hadn’t stopped him? For Lorena, for Iris—maybe. He won’t ever know now. 

Lucy clears her throat and Flynn looks up from the floorboards. The burgundy overdress he’d found for her is clasped in her hands—he hadn’t even noticed she’d taken it off—and her face is twisted with indecision.

“I—” She grimaces, then sighs. “I can’t sleep in my corset and I can’t get it off myself.”

For a beat, a moment, what could be an hour, Flynn just stands there, feet glued to the floor. The sensible thing to do would be to call someone else—surely there must be a woman on staff who handles this type of thing regularly—but instead he finds himself crossing the room. 

He’s seen her in this state of undress before—after all, she’d been in just the corset and shift in the warehouse as well, and even those cover more than many modern fashions—but the atmosphere in the room feels strangely different now. Her breath catches when he settles behind her and his hands tremble almost imperceptibly as he reaches for the laces. 

“You told the man downstairs I was your wife,” Lucy says quietly, and Flynn nearly fumbles the knot. His wedding ring feels suddenly like an anchor on his hand, too heavy, too tight, and the fact that he’s unlacing a corset for a woman who is definitely not the one who put said ring on him doesn’t help.

_Christ_ , he can’t breathe. 

“What else should I have told him?” Flynn hooks a finger into the knot and Lucy’s breath catches again when it tugs the garment tighter. 

(He decidedly does not let himself consider how he might provoke that response in a different context)

“You could have said I was your sister,” she offers. He laughs before he can stop himself. 

“You think he would have believed that?” Flynn asks. He tries to keep his touch clinical as the knot comes undone and he sets to work loosening the laces, but the air between them is strangely intimate. Although, for all that Lucy’s the one being undressed, Flynn’s the one who feels exposed. 

He’s not oblivious. This tension between them—the crackle of static that sets both of them on edge, not quite desire but not wholly innocuous either—isn’t new. It was there in a train station in 1865, at Castle Varlar when he’d finally snapped and revealed more than he meant to...even their first meeting, when she gave him the journal, there was something.

But of course, that was a different Lucy. This Lucy...he doesn’t know what to think about this Lucy.

(If she hates him, and he thinks she might, he deserves it. But somehow, despite everything, he can’t help holding onto a flicker of belief in the journal. He wants to work with her to take down Rittenhouse, wants to help her find whatever vengeance or peace she’s looking for just as he wants his own)

_I really thought we were going to do great things…_

_You’re the only one who could understand._

“Maybe not,” Lucy acknowledges. Flynn’s hands still on the last of the laces, the response unexpected enough that his mind shorts out for a second.

Clearing his throat, he quickly finishes his work and steps back. The more distance between them, the more he can breathe, can think, can stop feeling as though there’s electricity zipping underneath his skin.

_I don’t want this_ , he thinks.

_Liar._

Flynn keeps his back to Lucy until she slips into the bed, then shucks his jacket, turns out the light, and settles on the floor. His eyes fix on a dark stain near the ceiling that speaks of water damage.

His ring still weighs heavy on his hand.

“Good night, Lucy,” he says. She shifts, the bed creaks, but she doesn’t reply.

He closes his eyes. 

 

II.

_Dubrovnik, 2005_

_“Garcia, you sorry bastard, come on,” his partner Dominic calls. “You promised me you’d show me around your town, not spend the week shut inside brooding.”_

_“What I said was that I had family things to take care of and if you wanted to tag along I might find the time to show you a few things,” Flynn corrects, locking his front door and pocketing the keys. “Not my fault you couldn’t find anything to do without me.”_

_“You’d miss me if I went off alone.”_

_Flynn smirks and mutters a phrase under his breath. Dominic punches him in the shoulder._

_“You’re a dick. That’s why you have to spend all your time with me, because you can’t find yourself a nice girl to marry.”_

_“Or maybe I can’t find a nice girl because I have to spend all my time with you,” Flynn shoots back. He isn’t expecting the second playful shove and he loses his balance, tripping into the woman walking behind them. Quick reflexes save them from falling to the ground, but the basket of fruit she’s carrying isn’t so lucky._

_“I’m so sor—” He meets her eyes and the words stick in his throat. He knows her—he’s seen her every day for the past week behind the counter in the slastičarnica near his home. She always wears flowers in her hair._

_(He’s been trying to convince himself to talk to her to no avail. Apparently his time to decide is up)_

_She raises an eyebrow and Flynn realizes his hands are still on her waist. When he snatches them back, her eyes twinkle._

_“You’re the man from the shop,” she says. “I keep seeing you look in, but you never buy anything. Don’t have a sweet tooth?”_

_“Oh, he definitely does,” Dominic interjects before Flynn can respond. “He’s just...particular.”_

_“Please forgive my friend,” Flynn interrupts, finally finding his voice again. “We didn’t mean to run into you.”_

_“Tell me your name and I’ll consider it,” she replies. Her voice makes him think of melting chocolate and hot summer nights, dark and sweet and full of promise._

_The first day he saw her there were lilies in her hair. Today she’s exchanged them for irises._

_They suit her._

_“Flynn,” he responds. “Garcia Flynn.”_

_“Lorena,” she offers, along with her hand. He doesn’t hesitate in taking it._

_“Lorena what?” Dominic asks._

_Lorena’s lips curve up and she looks to the ground, then back to Flynn, eyes dancing._

_“Flynn, if he plays his cards right.”_

 

III.

 

Flynn drifts, but he doesn’t sleep. Not really. His mind is too full, his demons too loud. His better angels have long since abandoned him, if they ever existed at all.

_Lorena, Iris, Lucy. Iris, Lorena, Lucy. Lucy. Lorena. Lucy._

Lucy.

_“Say we do this. That we really take out Rittenhouse. What will you do?”_

_“Go home to my family. Let my little girl jump into my arms. Hug my wife. And then say goodbye and walk away forever.”_

Lorena.

_“What kind of husband or father can I be after what I’ve done?”_

_“You said that you couldn’t be a father after what you’ve done, but you can. Okay? You can.”_

Lucy— _handing him the journal, “We’re going to do great things, you and I,” steel in her spine, eyes flashing, “Rittenhouse? This paranoid delusion—”, worn pages, smeared ink, “You can save them—”, his hands trembling as he unlaced her corset—_

Lorena— _hair shining in the setting sun, warmth curled around him on lazy Saturday mornings, “I’ll never love anyone the way I love you—”, Draga žena—_

_Stop._

Flynn’s eyes flutter open. 

“Amy!” 

He’s up before he can even think, an unconscious reaction to sounds of distress. Lucy’s still asleep, but her cheeks are wet and she’s tangled up in twisted sheets. 

“Lucy.” Flynn perches on the edge of the bed and gently shakes her shoulder. Lucy snaps awake with another gasp of her sister’s name, eyes darting around the dark room. He watches as everything comes back to her, as she remembers what’s happened and where she is, sees a mask of composure begin to form only to shatter into pieces. 

She shivers and looks away, one hand coming up to swipe at her eyes.

The silence hangs in the air between them, a tenuous thing, and finally, Flynn breaks it.

“Are you okay?”

For a moment he’s sure she’s going to brush him off, and he honestly wouldn’t blame her. But then Lucy hiccups, covers her mouth with her hand, and starts to sob.

(It’s like watching a dam break in rapid motion—a strong, towering thing—first with minuscule cracks, then larger ones, and then the walls burst, crumbling into nothing under too much pressure. He wonders how long she’s been building up to this. Likely far too long since he’s the last person he would guess she would want to break down in front of)

Flynn doesn’t say another word, just shifts closer on the bed and pulls her into his chest.

(He did _this_ for Lorena, too. Held her and let her cry and scream and curse the world, even when he himself was breaking. When he couldn’t do anything else, he could at least do this and feel useful)

He loses track of time between quiet murmurs in the dark, between shudders and sobs and nails clawing at his shirt. His free hand slips into her hair, muscle memory reminding him to work gently through the tangles so they won’t pull. He doesn’t remember what he says, comforting himself with the knowledge that he doubts Lucy speaks Croatian so she wouldn’t know even if he said anything incriminating. 

Finally, Lucy stills, her breathing slowing, body slumping against Flynn’s. She doesn’t speak—he’s not entirely sure she’s awake, but he’s not sure she’s asleep either—and she doesn’t pull away. And since she doesn’t move, neither does he, his fingers continuing to card through her hair in time with her breathing.

Intimacy. Comfort. There’s something excruciating about laying yourself bare for another person like this, stripping away the layers and letting them see everything. Excruciating...but beautiful at the same time. There’s something precious in vulnerability, in the rawness of it, the trust, the faith. Intimacy, vulnerability, love...it’s giving someone else the power to destroy you and praying they won’t. 

It’s the last thing he deserves.

_What kind of husband can I be after what I’ve done?_

He’s not only referring to the killing, the lying, the monstrous things.

Flynn looks down at Lucy. She is asleep, her lashes forming crescent shadows on her cheeks in the light of the streetlamps coming through the window. 

He doesn’t look at his ring.


	2. Chapter 2

IV.

Flynn doesn’t sleep. He should—scattered hours of rest snatched here and there really aren’t sufficient for maintaining his current energy levels—but Lucy is a warm weight against his chest, and the ache of it, the phantom pain, the utter wrongness in how right it feels...he can’t.

If he sleeps, he’ll dream. Nightmares, or worse, perfect memories frozen in time. He doesn’t want either right now.

(He should return to the floor. Just because Lucy fell asleep in his arms doesn’t mean she would want to stay there. But the thought of accidentally waking her stays him)

It’s a long night.

Flynn can tell the moment Lucy wakes and he carefully disentangles himself. She stiffens fractionally as she blinks at him, then relaxes when she remembers. 

Lucy sits back, her eyes dropping to the crumpled bedspread as her hand comes up to brush her hair out of her face.

(Flynn’s fingers itch to do it for her)

“Um—” She coughs, her voice too raw and rasping to be entirely attributable to sleep. “Thank you. For...yeah.”

“You’re not the only one with nightmares, Lucy,” Flynn answers, too honest, exposing too much. He can see the unspoken question and answer flicker over Lucy’s face, but he’s grateful she doesn’t give voice to them. The compassion in her gaze when she glances back up is already too much as it is.

_Who helps you through yours?_

_No one. There’s no one._

A beat passes between them before Flynn looks away, chest tight and breathing shallow. What does she see when she looks at him?

_Too much_ , he thinks. _Far too much._

_We all make choices. You can make a different one._

No, he can’t. He’s too far gone.

“Do you need help getting dressed?” Flynn asks, grasping for any available subject change to break the silence. 

(If Lucy were to ask, he very well might just tell her everything, use this room with its hazy morning light as a replacement for the sanctity of the confessional he doesn’t dare seek out. As much as she claims not to understand, her eyes say differently, her journal says differently. And this tightrope he’s been walking—pitfalls on every side, exposed wires waiting to shock him at each turn—may just be worth it if she can offer him some kind of absolution)

“Yes, actually that—that would be nice,” Lucy replies. He keeps his eyes turned away while she pulls the discarded corset back on, only raising them again when she steps between his knees where he’s seated on the edge of the bed. This time, she’s still when he raises his hands and sets to work tightening her laces.

Seated, Flynn’s acutely aware of their height difference. Not that he hadn’t been before, but there’s a difference between bending to speak with someone—which is not a problem that’s specific to Lucy—and the recognition that it would require no extra effort to lean forward and set his mouth to the curve of her neck.

Not that he would. Not that she would let him. Not that he _should_ even _if_ she would let him. 

(He needs to sleep. That’s all this is)

“You know—” Lucy’s voice hitches when he tightens another set in the middle of her phrase. “—I get it.”

“Get what?” Flynn’s only half paying attention—focusing on the task at hand is better than letting his mind wander—but he freezes when she speaks again.

“I would do anything to get my sister back.”

And just like that, everything from the day before comes swarming back, crashing into him like a sledgehammer. He almost wants to laugh at the miscalculation she’s made with that, at the blatant lie (or hypocrisy, he’s not entirely positive) in that statement. 

“No, you wouldn’t,” he replies, pulling the laces a little tighter than strictly necessary before tying them off. Lucy stiffens before turning to face him, hands on her hips. 

“Yes, I would,” she insists, a flicker of hurt in her eyes at his doubt.

“If you would, you’re a hypocrite,” Flynn points out, moving to stand. He can’t have this conversation right now, not when they’ve essentially already had it. He wants to go, to figure out a way to get to Ford and Edison and Morgan, not to fight with her again.

“Excuse me?”

Apparently, he doesn’t have a choice.

“ _Anything_ is a big word, Lucy,” he shoots back. “So you’ll have to tell me, would you kill to get her back? Good people? Bad people? Children, maybe?”

The blood drains from Lucy’s face as the implications of what he’s saying register. “I—”

“Would you kill a child to bring your sister back?” Flynn repeats, feeling as though he could shatter at any moment. If his voice doesn’t break, it’s a near thing. “Because you stopped me from doing just that yesterday to save _my_ family. Or does it only count when it’s yours?”

“Flynn—” 

He doesn’t stick around to hear what else she has to say. 

“Get dressed, Lucy. We have work to do.”

The door doesn’t slam behind him, but the echoing silence of the hall, the emptiness, makes him feel as though he’s closed much more than that. 

As Flynn waits in the hall, he thinks. 

He’s so close—too close—to her, to this, to getting everything he wants or losing it in one fell swoop. He wants—needs—something to control, because he’s shaky and unbalanced, haunted by memories in the daylight after trying to banish them at night.

There are other ways he could deal with Lucy’s friends. Less expedient, perhaps, than sending them to the Murder Castle, but certainly more morally acceptable. He could still catch Karl, tell him to change the plan. 

But.

It’s easier when Lucy looks at him with hate rather than compassion. He’s well acquainted with navigating that by now.

(He doesn’t change the plan. Later, when Lucy’s eyes harden, when she calls him a _son of a bitch_ , it hurts more than it should considering it’s exactly what he wanted)

 

V.

Harry Houdini. 

It’s genius. Completely and utterly brilliant. And something Flynn never would have thought of himself. 

When Lucy first suggests it, he almost laughs just because of how surreal it sounds. That’s one thing he’s never quite going to get used to with time travel—meeting people who are famous, admirable, at points in their lives when they weren’t. At times when they were struggling to make ends meet, or trapped in terrible situations.

It’s fascinating.

And Lucy...well. She glows. 

The shift is truly amazing really. Before the show she’s stiff in her seat, understandably angry with him. But the second it starts, she changes. Her face lights up, her eyes sparkle—Flynn’s never seen her so happy.

He supposes this must be a historian’s dream—getting to travel through time, meet your idols, experience history you’ve studied for years firsthand. 

Her joy is infectious. He can’t help relaxing as he sits next to her, even once she volunteers and goes up to the stage. Maybe especially then, since that gives him a reason to watch her face, completely unhindered by the propriety demanded by the public setting.

She’s stunning. 

The lights reflect off the sides of the tent, off the curtains, so that Lucy’s almost backlit. And when she smiles, God, Flynn’s heart skips a beat.

(He wants to make her smile like that for the rest of his life)

Her eyes meet his and for a fraction of a second, that blinding smile is directed at him before she remembers what she’s doing and it falls. 

_I’m sorry_ , Flynn thinks. _I’m so sorry._

_This is my choice._

Better that she hates him. Better for both of them.

(She may not ever forgive him for this. He may have well and truly torched any hint of a bridge between the two of them. He tries not to let that hurt the way it wants to)

 

VI.

As it turns out, Flynn really should have slept. If he had, he might have realized that Lucy’s aside to Houdini about the Cutpurse was clearly a coded suggestion before he ended up handcuffed and disarmed.

He’s furious, of course. And yet, he also wants to laugh. There’s a deep fondness that floods through him when he thinks about it, a respect, admiration, pride in Lucy and her cleverness. She really is incredible.

They’ll meet again, that he knows. After all, he still has the journal.

Maybe by then she’ll understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is peak Garbage, friends. I genuinely don't have the words to describe my level of frustration and secondhand embarrassment with him.

**Author's Note:**

> I was talking to qqueenofhades and we were laughing about Lucy and Flynn possibly sharing a room during 1x11 (since it's implied they're there for more than just a day) and then it got sad and then I put Arsonist's Lullabye (Hozier, gr8 Flynn song, highly recommend) on repeat and well. Now we're here.


End file.
